Love Among the Ruins Part 12

She stretched out her hands like one smitten blind, and took breath swiftly in sudden gasps.

"Hear me, I was but asleep, woke, and heard music. The Virgin came out upon the altar, her face like the moon, her robes white as the stars.

There was great light, great glory. And she spoke to me. Mother of G.o.d, what am I that I should be chosen thus!"

"Speak. Can this be true?"

"The truth, the truth!"

Fulviac fell on his knees with a great gesture of awe. The girl, her face turned to the moon, stood quivering like a reed, her lips moving as if in prayer.

"Her message, child?"

"Ah, it was this: 'Go forth a virgin, and lead the hosts of the Lord.'"

Fulviac's face was in shadow. He thrust up his hands to the heavens, but would not so much as glance at the girl above him. His voice rang out in the silence of the night:--

"Gloria tibi, Sancta Maria! Gloria tibi, Domine!"

IX

Faith, golden crown of the Christian! Self-mesmerism, subtle alchemy of the mind! How the balance of belief swings between these twain!

A spiritual conception born in a woman's brain is as a savour of rich spices sweetening all the world. How great a power of obstinacy stirs in one small body! A pillar of fire, a s.h.i.+ning grail. She will bring forth the finest gems that hang upon her bosom, the ruby of heroism, the sapphire of pity. She will cast all her store of gold into the lap of Fate. Give to her some radiant dream of hope, and she may prove the most splendid idealist, even if she do not prove a wise one. Remember the women who watched about the Cross of Christ.

There had been trickery in the miracle, a tinge of flesh in the vision.

The Virgin, in the ruck of religion, had suffered herself to be personated by a clever little "player" from Gilderoy, aided and idealised by a certain notorious charlatan who dealt in magic, was not above aiding ecclesiastical mummeries on occasions, and conspiring for the solemn production of miracles. A priest's juggling box, a secret door at the back of the altar used in bygone days for the manipulation of a wonder-working image, musicians, incense, and Greek fire. These had made the portent possible. As for Fulviac, rugged plotter, he was as grave as an abbot over the business; his words were wondrous beatific; he spoke of the interventions of Heaven with bated breath.

It was a superst.i.tious age, touched with phantasy and gemmed with magic.

Relics were casketed in gold and silver; holy blood amazed with yearly liquefactions the souls of the devout; dreamers gazed into mirrors, crystals, finger-nails, for visions of heaven. Jewels were poured in scintillant streams at the white feet of the Madonna. It was all done with rare mysticism, colour, and rich music. The moon ruled marriage, corn, and kine. The saints, like a concourse of angels, walked with melancholy splendour through the wilds.

As for the girl Yeoland, she had the heart of a woman in the n.o.blest measure, a red heart, pure yet pa.s.sionate. The world waxed prophetic that shrill season. She was as full of dreams and phantasies as an astrologer's missal. Nothing amazed her, and yet all earth was mysterious. The wind spoke in magic syllables; the trees were oracular; the stars, white hands tracing symbols in the sky. She was borne above herself on the pinions of ecstasy, heard seraph wings sweep the air, saw the glimmer of their robes pa.s.sing the portals of the night. Mysticism moved through the world like the sound of lutes over a moonlit sea.

One March morning, Fulviac came to her in the northern chamber of the cliff. Yeoland had ma.s.ses of scarlet cloth and threads of gold upon her knees, for she was broidering a banner, the banner of the Maid of Gilderoy. Her eyes were full of violet shadow. She wore a cross over her bosom, emeralds set in silver; a rosary, dangling on her wrist, told how her prayers kept alternate rhythm with her fingers. Fulviac crooked the knee to the crucifix upon the wall, sat down near her on a rich bench of carved cedar wood.

The man was in a beneficent mood, and beamed on her like a l.u.s.ty summer.

He had tidings on his tongue, tidings that he h.o.a.rded with the craft of an epicure. It was easy to mark when the world trundled well with his humour. He put forth smiles like a great oak whose boughs glisten in the sun.

"You will tire yourself, little sister."

She looked at him with one of her solemn glances, a glance that spoke of vigils, soul-searchings, and prayer.

"My fingers tire before my heart," she said to him.

"Rest, rest."

"Do I seem weary to you?"

"Nay, you are fresh as the dawn."

He brushed back the tawny hair from off his forehead, and the lines about his mouth softened.

"I have news from the west."

"Ah!"

"We gather and spread like fire in a forest. The mountain men are with us, ready to roll down from the hills with hauberk and sword. In two months Malgo will have sent the b.l.o.o.d.y cross through all the west."

The golden thread ran through the girl's white fingers; the beads of her rosary rattled; she seemed to be weaving the destiny of a kingdom into the device upon her banner.

"How is it with us here?" she asked him.

"I have a thousand stout men and true camped upon the cliff. Levies are coming in fast, like steel to a magnet. In a month we shall outbulk a Roman legion."

"And Gilderoy?"

"Gilderoy and Geraint will give us a score thousand pikemen."

"The stars fight for us."

Fulviac took her lute from the carved bench and began to thrum the chords of an old song.

"Spears crash, and swords clang, Fame maddens the world.

Come battle and love.

Iseult-- Ah, Iseult."

He broke away with a last snap at the strings, and set the lute aside.

"Bear with me," he said.

Her dark eyes questioned him over her banner.

"I offer you the first victim."

"Ah!"

"Flavian of Gambrevault."

An indefinite shadow descended upon the girl's face. The inspired radiance seemed dimmed for the moment; the crude realism of her thoughts rang in discord to her dreams. She lost the glimmering thread from her needle. Her hands trembled a little as she played with the scarlet folds of the banner.

"Well?"

"A lad of mine bears news--a black-eyed rogue from the hills of Carlyath, sharp as a sword's point, quaint as an elf. I sent him gleaning, and he has done bravely. You would hear his tale from his own lips?"

She nodded and seemed distraught.